


Scribblings

by plumedy



Category: Murder Rooms: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Identity Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But Doyle - don't let these scribblings displace your medical career. <i>That would never do</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scribblings

“A bacteriological criminal? I must say, Doctor, this is a surprisingly fanciful notion.”

I looked at his letter curiously, and then at him. He was stretched comfortably in an armchair, his feet resting against the blackened hearth fender with lions’ heads at the corners, and exhibited no sign of distress either at my scepticism or at the fact that I was staring at him past a pile of freshly-printed copies of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_.

“Your lack of involvement in modern medicine shows.” He laughed in his low pleasant way and gestured with his glass. “It is rather given to flights of fancy.”

Every one of the covers was decorated with a profile of my sleuth. Next to the Doctor, they all looked like dozens of miniature golden mirrors reflecting the real thing - the angle of the eagle nose, the high forehead, the thin wry smile I knew so well.

“You’ve rarely broken your promises,” he murmured at length, and my heart skipped a beat. His gaze stopped on the books. “But the one time you did, you didn’t do it halfway. You never did do anything in halves, Doyle.”

A distinct note of amusement rang in his voice; I felt slightly braver.

“I don’t think medicine was ever for me,” I blurted before I could stop myself. When he didn’t answer, I added, equally impulsively, “Yet I wouldn’t want to have been without your instruction.”

I could tell that he didn’t wish for me to see the change that passed over his features. And certainly, he turned away a little and gulped down his brandy.

“You know that I’m not over-fond of fiction.” There was a long pause, which I rather suspect he deliberately stretched out. Then he raised a didactic finger. “I do, however, like yours.”

It had been a light-hearted enough exchange, and yet the quips were more than a little awkward; nothing had been said; and even this nothing was too much. As is, I start to feel, characteristic of our friendship, we simultaneously decided to solve the problem by laughing.

“I’ll consider your suggestions,” I promised. “Some artistic alterations are in place, of course, but there are the makings of a number of fine stories here.”

“Glad to be of service.” He flashed a grin at me, putting his glass down and tucking his long legs in woolen stockings under the armchair. Perhaps because he still felt the need to hide his eyes, he took some considerable interest in my right palm.

“A typical writer’s hand,” he observed. He took my wrist very carefully and turned my hand over. “Plenty of ink stains on the fingertips and a couple of small callosities on the second phalanx of the index finger. You have a habit of changing the angle of the pen when your fingers get sore, I see.”

I silently stared at his own hands. They told me plenty of things, too. As is the way with good surgeons, there were few scalpel marks - from the time when the one life-saving medicine was speed; but there were plenty of acid burns and a couple of deep white knife scars - stories of triumph and failure, protection and self-sacrifice.

“Your craft needn’t be the opposite of mine,” came his voice. He was watching me shrewdly. “Is the essence of both not healing? Writing can be as beneficial to the mind as medications are to the body.”

“This must be the closest to a compliment you’ve ever paid my work,” I huffed, ill at ease. But maintaining the faux light-heartedness was beyond me. I closed my eyes. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“I do have a name, you know,” said he quietly. He got up, pulling his gloves on, and inclined his white-haired head a little.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not _the Doctor_.” The word was clearly, in gentle mockery, capitalized. “Just one of. I have a name, my dear Doyle, and it is yours to use.”

It was like a gift, a small precious thing he was giving me. I nodded mutely, struggling to regain some self-control.

“I should very much like to see you again,” I pleaded at last.

“Oh, you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon. In fact, you ought to visit me.” His tone was gently teasing, full of laughter masking a powerful tenderness. “Read me some of your newest _scribblings_ , maybe.”


End file.
